


A Sad, Exalted Dream

by goldenteaset



Series: Swapping Fates [3]
Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Brooding, Chivalry, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Servant Swap, Shippy Gen, Some Humor, Tragedy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lancelot crouches down on one knee and focuses his vision as best he can from beneath his visor. There in front of him—yes, that Command Seal clearly deigns this man as his new Master. Looking a little closer, at the wild black hair, paper-skin stretched taut over sharp bones, and especially the lightless eyes as black as Lancelot’s armor, Lancelot comes to the conclusion that this isn’t just his Master, this is his King.</p>
<p>After all, who else could look so broken? Perhaps in private, he’ll manage to laugh about such a thought."</p>
<p>Lancelot is summoned by Kiritsugu in the Saber Class, and finds himself fighting with his past failings in a more literal way than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Serve In Valor and Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a Berserker!Lancelot and Kiritsugu fic, but that plan tanked on arrival, pretty much. (I wasn't sure how to portray Berserker's madness. Stream of consciousness? Inwardly sane, outwardly insane? Too many options...)
> 
> Making him a Saber-class Heroic Spirit and having him deal with his torn loyalty and failings wound up being the better choice, I think. (I realize he's only eligible as Saber in the Fate/Royal cards, but frankly I couldn't pass the idea up.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/Zero.

Lancelot du Lac’s heart nearly overflows with relief that he hasn’t been summoned as a Berserker. He wants to have his wits about him, to see whom he will serve in this Holy Grail War. He wants to have the presence of mind to bring his King glory.

_It’s just a shame I can barely see in this helmet. If only the Holy Grail had chosen the one the Lady Gwe—ah, but perhaps not. That would bring back sad dreams._

“Saber,” calls a baritone voice, the sound a strange combination of hollow and full of quiet determination. “From this day forth, you will fight in the Holy Grail War as my Servant. Is that clear?”

_Thank God he did not use my true name. That must be my burden alone._

Lancelot crouches down on one knee and focuses his vision as best he can from beneath his visor. There in front of him—yes, that Command Seal clearly deigns this man as his new Master. Looking a little closer, at the wild black hair, paper-skin stretched taut over sharp bones, and especially the lightless eyes as black as Lancelot’s armor, Lancelot comes to the conclusion that this isn’t just his Master, this is his King.

 _After all, who else could look so broken?_ Perhaps in private, he’ll manage to laugh about such a thought.

He realizes he hasn’t answered aloud yet. “Yes…my King.”

“Good.” His King’s expression doesn’t change. “If you obey me, victory is assured.”

Lancelot has heard that phrase before, and even after all this time his heart flinches at the half-buried memories those words invoke. He inwardly berates himself for his childishness and outwardly nods his assent.

“Good. Be ready for my orders.” With that, his King departs, his black coat swaying like folded wings behind him. The door _slams_ shut with a sound eerily akin to a coffin lid closing.

Lancelot finally gets a good look at his surroundings. He was summoned in a church, it seems—not an ornate one, but no drab place of contemplation, either. _The word I’m searching for is “cold”._ The pews are as black as night, and the silver on the walls shines like the moon. Everything is black and white, and it’s enough to make even the most jovial person fall into despair. _It feels like a place for the dead._

“Um…” A gentle voice interrupts his gloomy reverie. “Your helmet looks uncomfortable. Would you like to remove it?”

Lancelot sighs with relief and gladly does so, ignoring the way his dark hair tumbles wildly about as it falls against his shoulders. “You have my thanks.” He cranes his neck to see who granted him such a boon…and his heart lurches in his chest.

It’s uncanny, the similarity between this woman and the Lady of the Lake. They share the same ice-flow hair, gentle smile with a reservoir of strength behind it, and even her voice carries sweet, soft power. The only difference is in the eyes—the Lady of the Lake’s eyes were the blue-green of clean water, while this woman has eyes like wine, or blood.

Lancelot tries to get down on one knee—only to remember he’s already in that position. “M-My Lady, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The lady’s laugh warms the cold church. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Saber! My name is Irisviel von Einzbern, but you may call me Irisviel. There’s no need for the ‘Lady’ part—it’s a little redundant, don’t you think?”

“If you say so, L—Irisviel. Are you a holy woman?”

Irisviel frowns and taps her finger against her chin. “I suppose so. Oh! If you're asking ‘do I live in this church’, then ‘no’ is the answer. I’m Kiritsugu’s wife”—she giggles—“or rather, he’s my husband. This church is part of the Einzbern mansion, where we live.”

“…I see. Now I understand.”

Irisviel looks at him strangely. “Saber, you don’t have to kneel anymore. You look like you’ll fall over any moment.”

“Thank you, Irisviel. Forgive my…misunderstanding.” His bones creak with relief as he stands. “Is there anything I can do to help my King before the Grail War begins?”

“Not that I can think of, no. Kiritsugu will probably be spending time with our daughter Illya—would you like to meet her?”

“No thank you—well, I have no doubt she’s a wonderful child, but…wouldn’t it seem strange to meet a knight in this era?”

“Ah, I suppose you’re right. Oh well.” Irisviel looks him over thoughtfully. “We should get you some modern clothes, so that you can fit in better when we travel!”

“Your kindness is nearly overwhelming. I would be honored to wear my King’s colors.”

Irisviel smiles. “Yes, a black suit would look very good on you. Okay then! We’ll get the greatest tailors for the greatest knight!” Her enthusiasm is as overwhelming as her kindness, and Lancelot wonders idly if she’s what’s keeping his King standing.

“I am in your debt, Irisviel.”

A strange look crosses her face, something between sadness and amusement. “That’s not necessary, Saber. Really, we’re indebted to _you._ ”

Lancelot considers debating that point, but opts not to. “As you say, Irisviel. If I may…can I explore the mansion grounds?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

\---

Lancelot finds himself glad that they don’t encounter little Illya as Irisviel shows him the sights. _Not that there’s much to see in this place. White is more a presence than a color here._

He notes as they walk under spiny-looking walnut trees that his King Kiritsugu’s temperament suits this place, but Irisviel seems the opposite. She’s breathlessly enthusiastic as she happily explains to him how old certain trees are, and how she can tell their age. She tells him how she and Kiritsugu met, the first time he brought her books to read, and…

“Here,” Irisviel suddenly says, as they stop by a huge ice-encrusted willow and a stream bursting with snowmelt. “This is where we decided to choose you as our Servant.”

“Truly? Why?”

Her voice is full of teasing mirth. “Why did we decide here, or why did we choose you?”

“…The second question, please.”

Irisviel nods and looks down at the gurgling stream. “When I was… _young_ , Kiritsugu decided to show me his ideals instead of merely telling them. He gave me all sorts of books about heroic legends, but the ones I enjoyed the most were about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.”

Lancelot finds himself smiling. “Were they good yarns?”

Irisviel looks confused for a moment before nodding in understanding. “Oh, yes, they were never dull! In fact, I used to stay up until dawn reading about the tournaments and quests.” She laughs. “Kiritsugu was so surprised at first, I think he expected I’d like the love stories best!”

“Tales are remarkable things; the good ones touch the heart rather than one’s gender.” The word _gender_ springs from his lips without pause, though the term was not in use during his time. _Such a strange feeling, this knowing without knowing…_

Irisviel looks pleasantly surprised. “Kiritsugu believes that too, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He’s too busy to really enjoy stories nowadays.”

Lancelot’s brows furrow. “Does my King have no time for leisure, to spend with you?” He inwardly braces himself for the answer.

Irisviel’s cheerful expression turns subtly strained. “Kiritsugu…he has a dream he wants fulfilled, and while I may be part of it, I’m not _all_ of it—you see, Saber?”

The familiarity of her words gnaws at him. _Once a maiden-Queen said something similar to me, in the quiet of a summer morning. Dawn’s light illuminated her too-bright eyes, but I could not see her tears._

“Saber? Do you understand?”

Irisviel has moved closer to him while he was lost in thought, and he tries to make his giving space between them look polite, not wary.

“…I’m afraid not, my La—Irisviel. If you could elaborate?”

“I can try. To put it another way…Kiritsugu enjoys being with me, but it seems to hurt him, too. He tries to keep it hidden, but I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t like to grow attached to people; in the end I think he prefers his ideals.” Irisviel laughs softly and tosses her head, her hair flowing in the wind like a banner. “But that’s alright, since I like his ideals too! I’m more than willing to make them a reality, for his sake and Illya’s.”

Lancelot’s stomach twists, and he tries his best to make his smile seem legitimate and not sickly. “I can see why you enjoy tales of my King and fellow knights. Your words gladden my heart.” _Well, it’s nearly true._

Thankfully, Irisviel takes his words at face-value and doesn’t question him.

\---

They travel to Fuyuki by way of an airplane.

Irisviel is delighted to take the window seat, and tries to point out various landmarks to him, or exclaim about how far down and wide the ocean is. Lancelot takes the aisle seat for ease of getting to the bathroom when the barf bag can’t hold it. He doesn’t want to ruin this black suit.

His world narrows to a cramped metal container, screaming children and their negligent parents, and muggy, metal-tasting air.

 _Even the most foul-tempered, carbuncle-ridden dragon with no sense of direction would be a preferred method of travel._ The hours move forward like frozen molasses, and at one point he wonders if he could forcibly change Servant classes from sheer tedium.

“Would you like some refreshments, sir?” the airline hostess asks, her brown eyes filled with concern.

“…If possible, may I have some beer? Whichever tastes best, please.”

“Of course, sir! I’ll be right back!” She bustles off with purpose and the enthusiasm of youth.

After his beer arrives, Irisviel halts her one-woman sightseeing to see what he thinks of modern day drink.

“Well? How is it?” Irisviel asks, as Lancelot takes a cautious sip.

He’s about to answer when the taste hits him: a foul combination of sugary butter that slides down his throat more solidly than it should. As tears burn his eyes and he starts coughing, he crafts a theory as to why so many passengers sound ill.

“ _Oh_ ,” Irisviel croons, as though he’s her younger sibling, and gives him a hearty smack on the back to ease his pain.

 _You shouldn’t do that,_ Lancelot wants to say, but gives up as he has one final bombardment of dry coughs.

He takes a catnap after that fiasco, and when he awakes what feels like a moment later the fiasco of a beer is mysteriously gone. _Clearly, it is searching for its next victim._

Lancelot spends the rest of the flight staring at the blue seat in front of him, and by the time they land he knows the pattern of the itchy fabric so well he can envision it when he closes his eyes.

When the airplane finally lands back on solid ground, Lancelot can’t get out of that fiendish contraption fast enough. _Never has the ground felt so pleasant to stand upon…!_

Irisviel promises to put him under a sleeping spell next time—though the likelihood of a next time is rather unlikely for multiple reasons. He thanks her anyway.

\---

That night at the Einzbern Castle in Fuyuki, finally able to rest, Lancelot dreams of a memory:

_It was the evening after the jousting tournament that Lancelot somehow managed to win. To his young eyes, Camelot appeared to be joy itself. The dining hall was filled to overflowing with the sounds of laughter and song, and the smell of delicious food and drink. He was given so many congratulations and introduced to so many of his fellow Knights of the Round that he would’ve been disoriented without the wine’s assistance. The stone walls practically glowed with warmth, and not just from the torches._

_Eventually, Lancelot needed to take in some fresh air, so he politely excused himself and went out to the practice yard._ Surely, no one will be there. Everyone is enjoying the feast, after all…

_As he stepped into the moon-illuminated, dirt-flattened yard, with its straw targets still as stones and wooden practice swords casting long shadows on the ground, he realized he was wrong._

_“Good evening,” said Camelot’s King, a small, surprised smile on his face. “I see you weary of social gatherings as well, Sir knight.”_

_Lancelot smiled in return and tried to quell the nervousness crawling across his flesh. This was the first time he was with King Arthur in private. He couldn’t allow himself a single misstep._

_King Arthur threw a practice sword at him, shattering his thoughts. He caught it with ease, noting the name “Sir Kay” carved into the hilt._

_“…Your Majesty, what…?”_

_“A sparring match will ease your mind,” King Arthur said, his smile tinged with challenge._

_Lancelot couldn’t help but chuckle, and slid into his fighting stance with ease. “Very well—do not coddle me, my King!”_

_King Arthur laughed in return, his green eyes nearly as bright as the moon. “I expect the same of you, Sir Lancelot du Lac!”_

—“Saber? Saber, wake up!” Irisviel’s concerned voice breaks through the memory like a stone through a window.

Lancelot lets out an undignified grunt and forces himself awake. He sits up in the large, soft bed provided for him, reorienting himself as quickly as he can.

“What is it, Irisviel?” Lancelot thinks of his King, seemingly alone and unprotected. He tries not to think of the worst. “Is something the matter?”

Irisviel’s expression is somewhere between concern and anger. “I suppose you could say that.” She rests her hand on the nightstand, as though to steady herself. “Due to Assassin’s unexpected death an hour ago, the Holy Grail War is starting early.”

“…I see. Is the castle secure?”

“Almost; there’s a few more fortifications to be done. Do you think—?”

Lancelot slides out of bed and summons his armor in a cloud of black and blue dust motes. “The person who killed Assassin has no regard for rules. We must suspect—no, _expect_ —foul play.”

Irisviel nods, looking less worried now. “Kiritsugu will be safe. I’m counting on you to protect me.” It’s as though she read his mind.

Lancelot bows and, lifting her delicate hand in his calloused fingers, brushes his lips across her knuckles. “I shall do all that I can to protect you, my lady.”

The brightness in her eyes is a trick of the light.


	2. At All Times To Speak The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot is plagued by memories of the past. Unfortunately, he also finds himself dealing with his failings in the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...It's DONE. \o/ 
> 
> Sorry about the wait! This chapter seemed determined to become either full of unneeded descriptions/exposition, or Lancelot wallowing instead of coming to logical conclusions. After much editing, here we are!

Lancelot finds to his embarrassment that his protectiveness and worry have been for naught—not a single Master or Servant dares to attack Einzbern Castle. Even King Kiritsugu and his squire Maiya Hisau arrive the morning after Assassin’s death with little to complain about but a traffic jam.

“I don’t know if I should be relieved or suspicious,” Irisviel says. She hugs her husband tight enough that Lancelot can hear his bones creaking. “I’m glad you’re both safe…”

King Kiritsugu says something gentle in reply—Lancelot distracts himself with another cup of coffee so as to avoid overhearing such private words. Maiya (yet another who doesn’t want a “fancy title”) wanders over to the window overlooking the castle grounds to give them privacy. Lancelot follows suit.

“Clearly, you have done a better job protecting my King than I,” Lancelot says softly, as Maiya flicks a thoughtful glance at him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replies, the steam from their coffee obscuring the glass. “In the end, against Servants you’re our best chance of survival.”

Lancelot lets out a nervous chuckle. “I hope you’re correct.”

“So do I.” Her voice is calm and deliberate, reminiscent of Sir Bedivere. “Lady Irisviel isn’t the only person who wants to see Kiritsugu survive this war.”

Lancelot studies her. “You do not wish to live?”

“It’s unlikely I’ll survive.” Maiya sips her coffee in a manner reminiscent of a windup toy. “I plan to do my job to the end, nothing more, nothing less. I’m sure a man like you can appreciate that.”

“Mm. I suppose so.”

He watches Maiya glance at King Kiritsugu with a familiar warmth in her eyes, before they glaze over with calm professionalism. _We share a common tragedy, it seems._

Maiya turns her gaze back to him, her mouth a sharp neutral line. “…Did it feel good, when you were with the woman you loved?”

Lancelot stares down at the languid brown swirls in his coffee. “In truth, it felt better when the three of us could share each other’s company. It was a more bitter than sweet affair.” He doesn’t mince words; he will not watch another bond shatter when it can be avoided.

“…I see.” Maiya’s brows pinch. “Even though Lady Einzbern is a puppet in the end, she—her smile is genuine, pleasant. She treats me like a friend.”

“Advice has never been my strength, but…treat yourself and your friendship with care, as best you can.” He raises his cup. “To your health and theirs.”

A ghost of a thankful smile graces Maiya’s face as porcelain _clinks_ together.

\---

_It was the worst blizzard Camelot had seen in years; windows cracked under the onslaught of the cold, the castle roof groaned ominously, and day and night the wind shrieked and battered at the gates like an army of ghouls._

_Lancelot was holed up in the kitchens to keep warm that morning, and only Sir Kay was awake, as befits Camelot’s steward. As neither party were morning people, they ate their crispy eggs and blackened bacon and drank their hot apple cider in silence._

_Finally, Sir Kay spoke. “…Arthur likes you. He and Guinevere think you the perfect knight, the sort to outlast Camelot itself.”_

_“Camelot will never fall.” The very thought was unnerving._

_“Pray that it’ll be so.” Sir Kay took a long swig of his cider before setting his cup down with a_ thunk. _“But you’re missing the point, Sir Lancelot. Arthur wants your friendship. Guinevere…she wants your passion. I know you can see it, don’t bother making excuses.”_

_Lancelot fidgeted uncomfortably in his oak chair by the kitchen fire, suddenly feeling overheated._

_Sir Kay gave him a wry smile and stared into the flames. “The point that I was coming to is: know where your heart lies when you do your duty. But remember that you are_ human _, not a tool for chivalry.”_

_“…What should I do, then?”_

_“Heh. I’m no good at giving advice. ‘Chase after what makes you happy’ is what my father would say.”_

_Lancelot thought of King Arthur’s small, unexpected smile and Guinevere’s easy, bright laughter and silently despaired._

\---

In some ways, Lancelot is grateful that the Grail War battles are fought at night—there’s less chance of innocents caught in the line of fire, and it’s easier to make his enemies inhuman, thus easy to kill.

Lancelot and Irisviel follow a trail of mana (and putrid gore) left by Caster’s foolish Master. Their paths converge in a grimy backstreet, where the “Master” in question is trying to hypnotize a lady of the night with a mind-control bracelet.

“Come on, miss! You should be honored to be my newest subject! Where else d’you plan to get famous, huh?”

“…Yes,” the woman says flatly, her curly black hair shadowing her expression. “I’ll come with you. Make me famous.”

“Sure thing!” says the redheaded Master. His purple bracelet pulses with light and power.

The neon lights from an advertisement above cast his face in a monstrous mask of orange light and deep shadow, and Lancelot is shocked to see just how _young_ this boy is—he can’t be any older than Sir Percival. Even his excited chatter about Mary Kelly is that of a boy drunk off his own youth.

“How did a boy like _him_ become involved?” he mutters, more to himself than to Irisviel.

Before Irisviel can answer, an inhuman growl reaches their ears.

He grabs Irisviel by the arm and teleports them out of the grimy street and up to the top of one of the rundown buildings that serve as an entrance. Irisviel keeps silent and listens with him for the growl to come again. The strange boy-Master hasn’t noticed the sound, too consumed by his own monologue and his “eagerly listening” victim-to-be. A car horn honks. Rats scurry across and around trash bags like lice-ridden conquerors. _I must have misheard. No doubt it was a motorcycle engine._

Just as Lancelot’s about to relax, Irisviel lets out a muffled cry. Her trembling finger points him down to the backstreet again…to the barely-visible figure stalking toward the young hunter and his prey.

Now the growl is heard again, a leonine sound of unchecked rage. The boy-Master has no time for shock. His skull shatters with ease in the grip of a red-gauntleted hand.

Lancelot unsheathes Arondight just in time as the murderous figure lunges up and lands on the top of the building opposite them. It’s a knight clad in bloodstained armor, their face protected by the top half of a mail hood. Their eyes are covered by iron and shadow. A ragged cloak is fastened to their shoulders—Lancelot can see hints of blue in the sea of red, and clumps of matted fur trim. The visible, canine-filled mouth is twisted into a bestial snarl—this can only be Berserker.

He carefully ignores any familiarity this knight invokes.

“Sir knight,” Lancelot says, his mind racing. “We, too, were going to have that man pay for his crimes. Are we not both on the side of justice?”

Berserker lets out a raw exhale, whole body trembling with the urge to tear and maul and _fight._ Lancelot understands that need all too well, and doesn’t fault them.

“I have no intention to fight you Sir knight, not while we have business to discuss.” _And even if I wanted to fight you, doubtless_ you _would win, Sir._

Irisviel looks at him with worry and confusion, until her eyes light up with understanding. “Berserker, your Master is no doubt a good person, to have ordered you to attack that mad Mage. I think that calls for a truce, don’t you?”

Berserker pauses for a moment, as though thinking—or hearing their Master’s orders. Their mail shivers and _clinks_ as they continue to tremble.

A lone insect of some kind, bilious green and with a buzz similar to a cicada flies up from the street below. It hovers in front of Irisviel at eye-level, bobbing uneasily as though afraid of being swallowed. Its mandibles make a harsh, eerie _crack_ ing sound, one after another, and with great effort the _cracks_ turn into words.

“Have no. Quarrel. With you. Will control. Berserker. Hopefully. Tokiomi. _Mine._ ”

Irisviel nods. “That sounds fair. We’ll leave Tohsaka to you. After that, however, our truce will be over. Does that sound fair?”

“Yeah. Thanks Einzbern. Berserker. Come.” The insect’s words stop. Looking very weary, it buzzes away.

After a nerve-wracking pause, Berserker reluctantly turns their back and leaps off into the night, tattered cloak flapping wildly behind them.

Lancelot exhales softly. “That was rather…intense.”

Irisviel nods. “I think we should go back to our base—it looks like Berserker’s going to be out hunting.”

“That would be wise, I think.” Lancelot sheathes Arondight with a heavy heart—he has much to think on. “We should warn King Kiritsugu at once.”

Irisviel stares down at the bloodstained street below and nods, her face drawn. “…Yes.”

\---

_The day King Arthur set out on his quest for the Holy Grail, he ordered Lancelot to help him saddle his horse._

_It was not meant as an insult, it was simply Camelot protocol. At every battle or excursion, a different Knight of the Round Table was to help his King prepare to ride. However, the real point of the exercise was to give the King a chance to talk to and bolster the confidence of his men. So, Lancelot entered the stables full of curiosity and worries rather than humiliation._

Guinevere and I went riding yesterday; the sun was warm on our cheeks and she fed me wild strawberries. This life I’m blessed to live felt more a dream than ever before. And you…do you…? _The thoughts swirled, twisted and battered against his heart and mind, and he could barely bring himself to keep a calm demeanor._

_King Arthur stood next to his stallion, Hengroen, clad in his blue and silver armor and looking every inch a hero. His blond hair shone white in the sun, more a crown than the one he wore for formal occasions. Lancelot looked at those vibrant blue-green eyes and felt a jolt of worry course through him—_ What if this is the last time I see you?

_“Thank you for coming, Sir Lancelot,” his King said, the hint of warm affection behind the formality making Lancelot’s stomach and heart grow tense._

_“…Why would I not come, your Highness?”_

_King Arthur laughed softly and did not answer. But his smile was not as warm as before._

\---

When Irisviel tells Lancelot that Lancer and his Master have died by Berserker’s hands, he finds himself restlessly pacing the castle halls, thinking of every knight he ever knew (and thanks to the Grail, many he _never_ knew) and tries to match them with Berserker. _Sir Mordred…Sir Galahad…King Richard the Lionhearted…no, not a match among them._

There _is_ someone who could be Berserker, but like a coward he shuns the thought as soon as it enters his mind.

If King Kiritsugu is bothered by his knight’s aimless wandering, he doesn’t say. He rarely speaks at all to Lancelot—his words seem fit only for Irisviel or Maiya’s ears. It’s not his silence that is unsettling, but rather the lack of emotion in his eyes—as if any trace of humanity has been wiped clean from them.

_He calls to mind one of the murderous brigands who dared to call themselves knights, during King Uther’s reign._

The comparison occurs to Lancelot as he passes the “war room”, actually a large dining hall where King Kiritsugu and Maiya have spread out maps and gun equipment and everything else needed for their mission. The door is ajar, and Lancelot can hear Maiya and Irisviel talking in hushed tones. Through the half-open door, he can see Maiya supporting nearly all of Irisviel’s weight. Irisviel herself looks tired, ill, and in no mood to be pitied.

He forces his eyes away and quickens his pace—only to nearly bump into King Kiritsugu, leaning against the wall and listening in.

Lancelot immediately backs up and gives a quick bow. “My apologies, m—”

“Don’t bother.” The words may as well have come from a statue. Only the smoke from his cigarette moves, swaying up toward the darkened ceiling. “Don’t call me ‘my Lord’, ‘King’, or anything like that. This isn’t a relationship. You’re my tool.”

“…Naturally.” Lancelot clears his throat awkwardly. “I shall leave you to your thoughts.”

“You want to know what they’re talking about?”

_I’m no fool._

“They’re talking about death.” The hand holding the cigarette is sure and steady. “Irisviel’s death.”

Lancelot cannot find his voice. His heart seems torn between sinking sharply and pounding in his chest.

“Caster finally ‘died’ recently, after his remaining mana faded away. It appears Archer and Rider killed each other—judging by the weakness in Irisviel’s legs and arms. Her loss of touch, well, that might be due to Tohsaka and the other Master being dead too.”

“…Why is she dying?” He suspects the answer, but he needs to hear it anyway.

“She’s the vessel for the Holy Grail, and she’s being filled.” Kiritsugu lets the words sink in as he takes a slow, steady drag on his cigarette.

A disbelieving growl escapes Lancelot’s lips. “You would let her die for your dream? Your _wife?_ ”

“Better my wife than my child.”

“There is no dream, no wish in this world that could be worth that price.”

“I want to save the world. I want to stop the Holy Grail War from ever happening again. I want this world to be a peaceful one, for Illya’s sake. I’ll do what has to be done to make that happen—and if that means my wife has to die, so be it. And before you ask—she wants to grant my wish too.”

Lancelot’s mind reels with cold, bitter understanding. “By God…you’re both _mad._ ”

“You’d know. Do I need to use a Command Seal on you to keep your loyalty, or do I just need to say something about ‘honor’?” 

Lancelot fights the urge to hit, _break_ this man who summoned him. Thoughtlessly, he seeks out a far more painful way to lash out.

“That wish is tainted _._ May the Grail show you the rot and make you wallow in it.”

The madman’s skin twitches slightly. For the first time, he shows true hatred, and Lancelot is pleased beyond measure. The madman presses his fingers to the Command Seals, and they glow like dying embers.

“Go and die, and let the Grail be filled. Take your time, there’s no rush.”

Lancelot’s lips twist into a rictus grin. “Your generosity becomes you.” 

With that, he clenches his fists and strides away. His mind crackles with worries and half-baked plans—for what, rescue or destruction or something else, he can’t say.

He doesn’t bother being quiet, now. He dons his armor more out of spite than necessary precaution. It may be petty, to _clank_ around the castle like an avenging ghost, but it’s _very_ satisfying…for a while. After that he returns to brooding, pondering over Irisviel’s tense, pained expression after they first met Berserker and saw their handiwork.

_Has she always been aware of her duty? Is she truly the Grail itself? If so…her enjoyment of King Arthur’s legend is a bitter thought._

Lancelot realizes he’s in the castle library—it makes sense; there is no better place for contemplation outside of a church. Alas, this room feels as barren and empty as the others. He stares at the rows of shelves, the eerie barrenness of the old dark wood. _There are no tales to be told or read here._ He thinks wistfully of the bards of Camelot, for whom stories seemed to tumble from their lips like ripe fruit.

_King Arthur loved tales of heroes long before; Guinevere wept at the tales of the Old Ways fading. King Arthur so rarely laughed—hearing that quiet joy in answer to a bard’s farce was…_

He sighs and rubs his eyes—many rooms here are dusty; the motes gleam and float in the moonlight in pale imitation of stars. _I must be honest with myself. No doubt there is a reason my mind repeatedly fills with memories of King Arthur. The Grail seems to enjoy high drama—I mustn’t disappoint._

He doesn’t bother over-thinking this revelation. No matter how his mind chatters at him that _Berserker’s madness is your fault, you abandoned your King and wallowed in your despair while he fought alone_ , he assures himself that there is a way to end that madness.

Teleporting out of the castle, he dashes off into the night. He refuses to say goodbye—tools, after all, cannot talk. And there would be nothing more to say.

\---

It doesn’t take long for Lancelot to find Berserker—their raw strength and thirst for battle send out an easy-to-track pulse throughout Fuyuki.

Berserker and their Master are waiting in a park, under a gazebo. Lancelot can see children’s muddy footprints marked in the wet grass and dirt. It takes only a glance to see that this hood-covered Mage is not long for this world; his body trembles due to cold and pain. Lancelot resists the urge to recoil when _something_ oozes beneath his sweatshirt and skin, a thick lump that brings to mind a thousand disturbing possibilities.

“So you finally decided to show. Too bad we didn’t get a chance to talk in peace before Tokiomi died.”

Lancelot has no response to that.

The Mage lifts up his black hood, revealing gray, matted hair and a disfigured face the color of ash. He turns his head slightly to look at him through his good, black eye.

“My name’s Kariya, I’m… _from_ the Matou family.” _But not_ allied _with them_ is the undercurrent.

“…Why do you tell me your name?”

Kariya’s smile is gentle and sad. “Well…that’s what knights always did before battle, right? And since Berserker can’t…I figure _somebody’s_ got to start this off right, right?”

Lancelot allows himself to smile back, let out a chuckle. “It appears the Grail has chosen the wrong Master-Servant pairs for us.”

It takes a lot of effort for Kariya to shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. Berserker, she—she’s done her best. I can’t ask for anything less. It wasn’t my idea to summon her this way, but we made the most of it.”

… _She?_

Lancelot fights the urge to retch as Berserker’s mail hood is pulled back, revealing not just that his guess was correct, but that he had failed his King in more ways than one.

A woman’s twisted visage stares back at him, vibrant green eyes hot with rage. Her bone-white flesh is warped; with mould-green veins thick and twisting in a pattern that reminds him of a face carved into a tree. Her blonde hair is white in the moonlight and tied back with one of Guinevere’s blue ribbons.

_My King…!_

Lancelot’s will begins to quail. Sir Kay’s words about _knowing where your heart lies when you do your duty_ suddenly have a harsher ring to them, and Guinevere’s unshed tears of regret and misery carry more than just a woman torn between lovers.

To his credit, Kariya looks regretful. “…You must be Lancelot.” It’s spoken like an apology.

The soft words bring him back to his senses, somehow. They renew his feeling of purpose. _I never backed down from our sparring matches when I thought her a man. What a coward would I be to back down now…_

“Yes,” Lancelot says, as he unsheathes Arondight. “I suppose this is right. Let us begin, my King.”

King Arturia’s brief flash of teeth could be called a grin, but Lancelot doesn’t let himself hope.

It soon becomes clear in the quick twists and clash of steel that they are not equal as they once were. King Arturia gained all the power boosts the Berserker class has to offer, and Lancelot quickly finds himself losing ground. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nearly slipping on wet grass, he narrowly misses getting his head cleaved off. Excalibur takes the tip of his ear and a chunk of hair. Lancelot’s hurried kick to her knee sends King Arturia toppling.

He tackles her to the ground, armored fingers scraping against Excalibur’s slick hilt as he tries to pry it from his King’s hands. Her neck strains as she tries to bite at him. Her choppy breath burns hot against his face.

Out of options, he smashes the pommel of Arondight into her wrist. Bone shudders and _cracks_. His King lets out a shriek and drops Excalibur—and her unbroken fist thuds into his face. He hears the thick _snap_ of his nose breaking, feels the searing pain and hot blood dripping down his chin. King Arturia draws back her hand again. This time it clamps around his neck and begins to squeeze.

As soon as the air begins leaving his lungs, Lancelot struggles back. His world narrows to white spots and the vague feeling of his fingers clawing and shoving at the enemy beneath him. _This is not a battle worthy of knights._ But that thought doesn’t matter—he’s been waiting for King Arturia’s hand around his neck and her cries of rage for a long, long time. How strange that he couldn’t bring himself to admit it before.

Now, of all times, he finds he has questions to ask her, words to say: _Your forgiveness for my actions seemed then to be an act of cruelty—could you bring yourself to hate your Queen and I? Did those tangled feelings of love and duty savage you too? Could we have allayed each other’s madness together? Can we still?_

_Despite all this…I do not regret the day I became your knight. Those days we spent together still warm my heart…_

He can feel his body beginning to waver, to turn to dust and fade away. Vaguely, beneath him, he can feel his King fading too. He wonders what will happen to her Master, and inwardly hopes that he will win the Grail.

His eyes gain clarity for a moment, and he sees his King clearly one last time. Even through the bloody gashes and rising bruises, her eyes are still bright, and still beckon his allegiance.

Her cracked lips mouth words: _Thank you._

As the world fades around him, those words seek out the dark cracks in his heart and mend them a little. He leaves the Holy Grail War with a small promise in his heart.

_Perhaps we will share a happy dream together, my King._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. :D Concrit and feedback is much appreciated!


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